


A Deep Well

by quirkysubject



Category: due South
Genre: Anger, Angst, F/M, Guilt, Missing Scene, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Regrets, Second Time, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-09
Updated: 2006-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long, pretty much since I first laid eyes on you ten years ago, and the sheer presence of you, your hands and lips and skin and, oh God, your voice, threatens to overwhelm me long enough for you to mark the skin right above my collarbone with your teeth.
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Victoria Metcalf
Kudos: 1





	A Deep Well

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 9 September 2006 to the [Get Fraser Laid-Challenge](https://getfraserlaid.livejournal.com/16921.html) on Livejournal. Reposted here with minor edits.
> 
>  **Prompt:** What happened when Fraser slammed the door in the camera's face? Was Victoria rough? Sweet? Did Fraser suspect something was wrong while they were making love? Was this the first time they had actual sex, or did they have sex ten years ago?

You came back.

When I heard the knock on the door I was convinced for the fraction of a second that it would be you. But I didn’t allow myself to believe it, as if this could influence the identity of the person standing at the other side of the door. As if my thoughts and hopes could change fate.

In the few moments it took me to walk from the place in front of my bed to the door of my apartment, all kinds of faces and names scrolled down before my eyes: Ray, needing help in an emergency; Mr. Mustafi, wanting his TV back; Francesca …

I didn’t dare hope it was you.

But there you are, looking small and fragile in your thick, dark coat, the black curls of your hair framing your face.

I told myself all the way to your hotel that I was merely being courteous, and that it was nothing but gentlemanly to offer to walk you up to your room. That I was not disappointed when you rejected this offer. I refused to confess, even to myself, what I wanted. I refused to acknowledge that I had mentally rehearsed the question “Should I come in for a moment?” a hundred times while we were walking side by side. That I pictured you trying to seduce me while I tried to remain chivalrous until I’d finally, inevitably give in.

But I’m not lying any more. I let my surprise, my… _want_ show openly on my face.

I look at you, and my instincts tell me that I completely misunderstood the situation a mere heartbeat before you speak.

“Did you think we could just pretend that it didn't happen?”

It feels as if you punched me in the gut. I can’t face the accusation in your eyes or the resignation in the gesture you make with your hands, so I stare down at the floor.

“How could you do it?”

You push me into the flat and follow me, accusing, enraged… or are you desperate?

I feel the wardrobe against my back, and somehow it’s that which gives me the strength to look at you again. I can’t meet your eyes, not yet, but you are beautiful in your rage, in your sadness.

I fix my gaze on your mouth as I close the gap between us and put my arms around you, holding you. I want, _need_ to tell you that I’m here, that I won’t leave you ever again, that you can trust me. I cannot tell you that with words, nor with my eyes, but I can tell you by holding you.

Your hands immediately find my chest, grabbing my shirt; then your fingers loosen again, as if you aren’t sure whether to let me hold you or to tear me apart.

Not as if that even matters.

“No.” You punctuate this with a slap against my shoulder, but immediately hold on to me again. I take the blow and let your face rest against mine.

What can I say? I want to tell you how much I want you, how often you have been haunting me in my dreams, how wrong I’ve been, how much I yearn for your forgiveness, how little I deserve to ask for that forgiveness…

“I’m sorry.” I whisper so that my voice won’t break.

We stand there for countless heartbeats. I keep my head bent, awaiting your verdict. Finally, you unwind the death grip of your hands, raise your head and kiss my forehead.

Te absolvo; although it’s not an absolution, but rather a reluctant pardon. It’s not enough, but it’s not you who gives too little, it’s me who needs too much.

You relax in my arms and I can feel you kissing my cheek and temple softly and lightly. I bury my head in the curve of your neck, trying to… trying to work up the courage to believe what is happening.

I’m not sure whether the embrace is for you or for me any more.

Not that that matters either.

You take my head in your hands and your lips descend on mine. They don’t feel chapped and cold this time, but this kiss contains the same need as it did ten years ago, the need for warmth and comfort and togetherness. It seems like the circumstances are reversed this time: you found me, you had to make a decision, you are the one to… save me.

I bury one hand in your hair, so soft and lush, while I close the door with the other, trying to not let you go any more than absolutely necessary.

The kiss deepens, your coat drops to the floor, and then I feel the back of my knees hitting the frame of the bed. This catches me off guard; I lose my balance and fall backwards onto the bed, pulling you down with me. You apologize for landing on top of me and for the first time since you’ve entered my flat I dare to lift my eyes unto yours.

“I probably deserve it,” I answer with a weak smile.

“You do.”

I do.

But again you kiss me, and as I guide your hand to my mouth I can feel you smile softly against my neck. Your fingers taste of creme and lemon oil, but underneath, I can still trace the tang of snow and coldness and desperation, as if those days on Fortitude Pass were indelibly etched them onto your skin.

You pull your hand away, letting it trail over my chest and stomach before you press your lips to the skin beneath my ear, then to my neck. I can feel you tugging at my shirt, and my hearts starts beating faster than I ever imagined it would be capable of, because now, finally, I understand that this is real.

I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long, for… well, pretty much since I first laid eyes on you ten years ago, and the sheer presence of you, your hands and lips and skin and, oh God, your _voice_ , threatens to overwhelm me long enough for you to mark the skin right above my collarbone with your teeth.

A sharp intake of breath brings me back and I remember to relax the hands I’ve clenched in your hair. You bring your eyes back to mine, and only now can I muster the courage to look at you. For a split second, I fear those eyes, dark, almost fathomless, as they seem to enter my deepest thoughts and search the very bottom of my soul.

But I let them, I let you. There’s nothing to hide any more, because you came back, and you are here. No more hiding, no more lying, no more secrets.

One single finger wanders along the line of my cheek and jaw, while you look… uncertain, strangely torn and I just pray that you’ll understand what I’m silently begging you for, that I’m not asking for too much again.

I can’t ascertain whether you nod or not, but you give me a small smile, and for the fraction of a second I think you look almost sad, but that impression vanishes as quickly as thought.

You lift yourself up into a kneeling position, then sling one arm around my neck and the other one behind my back. When you lean back you pull me up, so that you’re now sitting in my lap, one hand sliding under my shirt, exploring my back. Your soft hands in contrast to the sharp solidity of your fingernails, which are slightly scraping over my skin, make me groan and bury my head in the hollow between your neck and shoulder, feeling your flawless skin against my lips and cheek.

I open my mouth and let my tongue glide over your pulse, feeling it speed up, and your low moan vibrates through my body, intensifies, echoes, fades away, followed immediately by mine…

Finally, I have to break the contact so that you can remove my shirt, and I seize the opportunity to reciprocate. Your hair gets dishevelled when I pull your top over your head and you look at me as if you are expecting me to get up and put it onto a hanger. I give you a half-smile and deliberately throw the top into the general direction of your coat. You quirk an eyebrow before you lean in and bite my nose. This is so unexpected, so surprising that I give a startled laugh. Your eyes glint mischievously and suddenly you grab my hands while leaning forward. When my back touches the mattress again, you pin my hands over my head and start kiss-biting my neck and jaw until my skin is on fire and I’m groaning helplessly.

You let go of my hands and lean back, straddling me, and before I can mourn the loss of physical contact you reach behind your back and open your bra. Before you take it off, you smirk and mimic a contemplative face, then shake your head and throw it away, watching it fall on top of your shirt.

And what a difference is it to see you like this, your bare skin glowing in the semi-darkness, compared to a clandestine glance through guilty eyes half-blinded by the radiant white of the snow. I shamelessly wallow in this view you present me now that I’m allowed to.

“…and Beauty herself is a Goddess…” I quote, just to see you smiling down at me. Once I knew the rest of the poem, but at this moment this is all that I can remember. “…and Beauty herself is a Goddess…”

My hands slide over your thighs to your waist and then upwards, and you lean forwards, to grant me better access. When I touch your breasts for the first time you let your head fall back a little and open your mouth to a soundless sigh, while I let my thumbs slide over your nipples ever so slowly.

You move down my legs and lower your hands to the button of my jeans and belt, to undo them, undoubtedly. Your eyes force mine to hold their gaze, and I do.

The sound of the opening zipper feels both obscene and calming. Calming because it erases all doubts of what this will inevitably lead to, obliterating all uncertainties I might have had at this point.

Then I raise my hands over my head, without you urging me this time, giving myself to you utterly and completely.

I betrayed you, I lied to you, in every way one person can do that to another. I saved you and let you pay for it with the price of your freedom. I didn’t lie with words, you know I didn’t, but I lied with my actions, and isn’t that a thousand times worse? I thought I had destroyed every atom of trust in your already scarred soul – will you let me give it back to you?

In this moment it seems important that you have power over me; and I don’t know how to tell you that, apart from giving you control over my body. But you know it isn’t about that, don’t you? You have to know it isn’t about tonight, but about forever.

You lift yourself up and finish undressing, exposing your body to my prying eyes. You look at me… I don’t know if I can call your gaze taxing. Maybe inquiring or… expectant, I… I don’t know what the right word might be.

When you make your decision or whatever it was you were contemplating, you move forward and lean down a little.

“Touch me,” you say, and in your voice, I can find all of it, a question, an order and a statement.

“Yes,” I say, answering, obeying and agreeing. But before I can reach you, you catch my hand, lift it to your mouth and give it a quick kiss.

“I do love you, you know.”

“Yes.” And in this moment I _do_ know. For a second I wonder why, but then I remember the look on your face when I handed you over to the police. There was hurt, rage, disbelief – and more than that: Hate. Not scorn or disdain, pure hate. And this is an emotion so strong and deep that it is only equalled by love, can only be caused by love, isn’t it, Victoria? You loved me then, and you do still; otherwise you wouldn’t have come back.

I don’t know if you’re thinking about the same thing while you look at me for a few more, long seconds, but then you recline next to me, using my hand to pull me towards you. When you finally release me, I slide my hand over the curve of your waist and hips, admiring the smooth skin and refined shape.

I try to pull you closer to me and then roll over, so that I’m lying on top of you, and for a short moment I’m surprised by your resistance, as if you aren’t quite ready to let me be in charge like that. But before I can draw back, you give in, rolling on your back and spreading your legs in a wordless invitation. I brush back your hair and gently kiss your earlobe, your soft, low sighs encouraging me to suck and nibble, while I slide into you ever so slowly, welcomed by your warmth, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever.

Your body moves underneath mine, tensing and relaxing, arching up and settling down again in a rhythm sweeter and more complex than any reason. You tilt your head and catch my mouth, exploring every part of it with your tongue, and I let myself be caught in this rhythm, be drawn into it, until time and space become as meaningless as the border between life and death was at Fortitude Pass.

I lift my head to look at your face. Your head has rolled back slightly, exposing your neck. The sweat covering your forehead lets your hair curl even more, and your open mouth shines wetly while you let your tongue slides over your lips every now and then.

No, this is no angel lying here, not even a fallen one.

For all these years I’ve thought of you that way; my mental image of you has been clouded by the mist of time, rosy retrospection and the overwhelming feeling of guilt, good and bad, white and black. I was wrong, so you must have been right…

But you are not made of porcelain or alabaster, you’re alive and imperfect… and isn’t it curious that it is only now I realize this that you are lying before me, debauched and more beautiful than any statue or icon could ever be.

Heat is prickling underneath my skin, and I begin to understand that you may have been unfair, that you put me into an impossible situation, because the choice I had, denying my love or denying myself, is not even worthy of the word. Suddenly I want to ask, if you had to make this decision now, being found by me and spending 10 years in prison, or dying alone in the blinding snow – which would you choose?

Suddenly I want, I _need_ to know that, so I cup the back of your head with one hand and tilt it forward, to make you look at me.

And somehow you seem to know what I want, and you open your eyes to look at me.

I see love and lust, yes, but also the bitterness that is always there, even when you laugh, reflecting your overwhelming feeling of being deceived by the world in general and by me in particular. There is no feeling of guilt in you, is there, my love? Maybe that is your real flaw. You are self-righteous in a way that I could never be.

Is it selfish to hate you? By all means. But for just one moment I don’t care. Please, give me that moment to just… feel what I really do feel, not what I’m supposed to be feeling. Let me be, let me breathe you in, let me take you apart and put us back together, let me look into the abyss we like to call a soul, let us make an eternal pact.

Show me everything you have: it doesn’t matter how ugly and hideous it is.

Your fingernails dig into my back, your legs close around my waist and you pull me closer to you, until I cover you fully and my face is next to yours. Your panting breath rings in my ears until it becomes the only sound in the world, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. You utter words I can’t repeat, because they’re only alive the moment they are spoken, losing all meaning as soon as they become a memory.

And suddenly I’m defeated, incapable of struggling. I surrender to your voice, consign myself to this fall, bitter, devastating, and ineffably sweet. I fall into you, drown in you, your warmth, your heat; I give myself to you.

I can feel the moment when you realize you’ve won. Your body yields against mine, allowing me to set a rhythm; the grip of your hands doesn’t loosen, but everything about you becomes softer, more permissive, less controlled.

Sweat is trickling down my spine. Your hands move from my body, clutching the sheets, and I feel you arching up against me, then a thousand more things, vanishing before I can give them a name. My lips brush over yours while I try to breathe in those broken words, try to make them mine, try to make them whole by blending them with my own husky moans.

Everything between us is raw and wild and savage, except for the small, sheltered space where our lips meet. Every move you make increases that fire in me until it threatens to burn me, to swallow me whole and turn me to dust, leave me in ashes.

And I let it.

I will it on, will us forward.

The muscles in my stomach tighten and the whole world narrows down that short, endlessly stretching moment of nearly painful tension just before release. I hear every sound you make, but the room is ear-splittingly silent, as if the air has suddenly frozen. It is you who finally breaks the spell; the sharp taste of blood on my lower lip mingling with the sound of my name whirring in the air and the reverberating, luscious thrill that pulses from my groin to every nerve ending of my body.

Slowly I let myself sink down and bury my head in the crook of your neck, vaguely aware of your hands curling in my hair. Then you roll me onto my back and kiss my lips, right there where you hurt me just moments ago, until the dull pain ebbs away and I’m drifting into a welcoming darkness. 

Surrounded by you.


End file.
